think about, ah, surfing the ’Net of someone whose net he very much wanted to, ah, surf. In fact, he was probably thinking about, ah, surfing the net of the same person Ed wanted to surf the ’Net for. Just, you know, not in any Internet sense of the word.
“Ed…” he began wearily.
But Ed had turned around to the computer again, and was punching more keys. This time, the Web site that popped up on the screen was for an online private investigative firm called WeFindEm.com. In big red letters at the top, it said, When You Can’t Find ’Em, We Can! And We Can Find Out Things About ’Em You Never Knew! In A Matter Of Minutes! In smaller letters, it said how much it would cost someone to have WeFindEm.com do just that. Very little, to Sam’s way of thinking. Amazing how people’s lives and secrets could be purchased so reasonably on the Internet.
“So since I’m on my lunch hour,” Ed said, “and since I’m not, technically, in uniform, I’m visiting this site as a private citizen. Which means I’m not violating police procedure.”
Maybe, Sam thought. It was a blurry line Ed was walking. Of course, it really didn’t matter, since the idea of Rosie Bliss being a drug pusher was still laughable, so any information Ed may uncover about her—or even purchase about her—was beside the point. If it was even reliable. Were those online investigators monitored? Hell, were they even licensed? Who knew what Ed would get for his $49.99? Other than the shaft? $99.99 if he wanted Rosie’s criminal records along with the shaft.
“Ed,” Sam began again.
He chose his words carefully, reminded himself to be gentle. It was common knowledge in Northaven that Ed Dinwiddie’s dream in life was to make a major bust that would gain him national acclaim. It was also common knowledge in Northaven that that wasn’t likely as long as he was head of security at the college. Hell, Ed being Ed, that wasn’t likely to happen even if he found a job with a metropolitan police department. Any force in their right minds—assuming they lost their minds long enough to hire Ed in the first place—would assign him to desk duty. Preferably in the fund-raising department where the most damage he could do would be to the decorating committee of the Policeman’s Ball.
“This’ll just take a few minutes,” Ed said as he turned to the computer, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as he did.
“Ed,” Sam tried again.
But Ed started humming “Stairway to Heaven”—loudly—interspersing it with admonitions like, “I can’t hear you. I’m humming ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ La la la la la. I can’t hear you. Buying…the stair-way…to heaven. La la la.”
So Sam had no choice but to give up and accept the inevitable. The inevitable being that Ed wasn’t going to let this go until Sam had had a look at the report with him. Which actually might not be such a bad thing. Because once that report came through and showed that Rosie Bliss wasn’t the hardened criminal Ed was certain she was, he’d have no choice but to abandon his conviction and leave Rosie alone.
WeFindEm.com was as good as their word, and by the time Ed finished his lunch—and a few more fractured Led Zeppelin numbers—the computer was telling him he had mail. The report was attached, and Ed immediately printed up two copies, one for himself, and one for Sam, who accepted it grudgingly and gave it a perfunctory look.
The look became less perfunctory, however, as the information became more inculpatory. Because if WeFindEm.com was right, Rosie Bliss hadn’t existed anywhere in the entire United States before she moved to Northaven.
“There you go,” Ed said triumphantly, having obviously read to the end as Sam had. “No evidence of Rosie Bliss’s existence prior to her having moved here two years ago. No birth records, no work records, no addresses, no licenses for anything, nothing. She doesn’t show up anywhere until she moved here.” He glanced up at Sam, looking even more triumphant than he sounded. “Now how do you think she’s made her way as an adult without having a bank account, owning property or applying for a job? The first time her name shows up as having any of those things, it’s here in Northaven.” He pointed to the investigative report before adding, “And look at this. She doesn’t even have a mortgage on Kabloom. When she bought it two years ago, she paid for it in full, to the tune of a hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars. Cash.”
“That doesn’t make her a criminal, Ed,” Sam pointed out. But even he was starting to feel a little niggle of suspicion at the back of his brain. What Ed had discovered about Rosie was a little odd.
“Maybe not,” the other man conceded with clear reluctance. He pointed to the investigative report. “But this sure isn’t the report of a person who has nothing to hide.”
“Maybe she’s an heiress,” Sam said. Not that he believed it for a minute. The last thing Rosie acted or seemed like was a person from a monied, privileged background. “She never had to work or live anywhere other than with Mommy and Daddy Warbucks, who took care of everything for her.”
“That still doesn’t explain why she doesn’t have any birth records,” Ed said. “Or why she never turned up anywhere before now.”
Sam sighed heavily. As much as he hated to admit it, the information in the report, if accurate, certainly roused his curiosity. It was odd that there was no record of Rosie’s existence anywhere prior to her coming to Northaven. But it certainly didn’t mean she was selling drugs. Or that she was committing any crimes, for that matter. There was still enough of the Boston vice cop lingering within him to think that maybe, just maybe, she deserved another look.
Maybe he should verify the information from WeFindEm.com himself, if for no other reason than to make sure the Web site wasn’t peddling erroneous background checks to people like Ed who might use them to feed their erroneous assumptions. There was a good chance WeFindEm.com had made a mistake in reporting Rosie’s vital statistics. And Rosie deserved to have any misinformation about herself that was floating around out there erased. She was part of what was good and decent in Northaven. She was part of what needed protecting. Sam wouldn’t be doing his job if he just let this thing go as it stood.
And damned if that wasn’t the finest bit of rationalizing he’d ever concocted for sticking his nose into someplace where it didn’t belong.
He gazed at Ed levelly as he folded the report in half, then quarters, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “All right, Ed. I’ll look into it. Just promise me that, from here on out, you’ll stay out of it.”
“Until you need me to coordinate on an investigation,” the other man said.
Sam nodded reluctantly. “All right.”
With any luck at all, though, it would never get that far.
3
THE MORNING FOLLOWING her sexual encounter of the baguette kind with Sam in Alice’s studio, Rosie was in her not-yet-open flower shop, still thinking about him. In fact, she hadn’t really stopped thinking about him during the past twenty-four hours. He might have drifted from her conscious into her subconscious from time to time—something she’d realized when she sat down to eat her dinner of bagel and Polish sausage, which she’d for sure never fixed for dinner before—but he’d always been present in her brain in some form. And his form was usually naked and sweaty when he’d been present in her brain. And he hadn’t been present in just her brain, but he’d also been present in her heart. And also a couple of other body parts—at least, figuratively speaking—that she’d as soon not dwell on right now.
She sighed and brushed a
